Save the Last Word For Me
by Javanyet
Summary: Trapped at a boring industry party, Mike bets the guys he knows how to persuade Bonnie to leave. Turns out 'inside knowledge' is a double-edged sword. One-shot.


It was decided that one of the "Monkees Headquarters" release parties would be combined with a sponsorship get-together for the show to promote the album to distributors and radio execs, and the new season to potential sponsors. So decided the PTB of both Raybert and Columbia Screen Gems/Colgems Records, anyway. The fact was that since the indelicate departure of Don Kirshner, and the final pressing of their first self-created album, everyone associated with the project had come to understand that the relationship between the music and the show was a little more complex than either they or Kirshner had first thought. So after a musicians-and-recording-staff-only party to celebrate the release, a more press-and-sponsor friendly event was planned by Bob, Bonnie, and the Colgems bureaucrats.

As usual, it was a necessary if unpleasant duty for the Monkees to attend, if only for photo ops. And as usual, Mike Nesmith was Not Amused. Because he and Bonnie had been working hard to keep the art vs. business debates away from home, his disapproval busted loose whenever the opportunity arose elsewhere. And tonight was Elsewhere, in spades.

"I'm telling you man, I can't stand another five minutes of this. All the hip movers and shakers talking and bargaining about us like we're a box of corn flakes," he griped to the others where they were gathered in a corner between group shots.

Micky, ever practical, informed him, "News flash, man... we are. Guess you missed the fine print."

A few instruments were lying nearby, used as props in the press photos, but it went without saying that many of the business types were not-so-secretly hoping for a private performance. Some of the women, mostly wives of the execs but some employed by them and brought along as a favor, were behaving more like fans than they would be willing to admit to their bridge clubs in the coming weeks. Too timid to ask for autographs they flitted nearby and away again, like shore birds afraid of getting wet. It was a scene that Davy, Peter, Micky and Mike had become all too familiar with. Unfortunately their ability to tolerate it didn't improve with repetition.

One young man, an up-and-comer from a Chicago rock radio station, made so bold as to ask right out loud:

"Any chance of you guys doing a song or two from the new album?"

Mike dipped his shades down his nose in the familiar "And YOU are?" gesture. "Nope. Got a groovier suggestion?"

The radio rep did not, and retreated to join a group where Bob and Bonnie were chatting up various industry reps.

"Damned if I'm gonna play for this bunch,"Mike grumbled.

Micky had been watching the conversations on the opposite side of the room. "I hate to say it," he observed, "but our Bon-bon looks like she has found Nirvana at last."

"Why hate to say it?" Peter asked with a shade of disapproval. "She's finally getting her shot." He looked pointedly at Mike. "Just like we are."

The latter flopped back on the sofa he was sharing with Davy. "Don't gimme that Teaching Buddha look, Pete. Nobody knows better than me how turned on she is by this new thing of hers. Bob can't introduce her to enough PTBs, man, she's his new Wonder Child and I think that's outtasight. Especially because she is damn determined to be the first PTB with one foot in both worlds, or something like that. Doesn't change the fact that this sad excuse for a 'party' has drug on long enough. In fact..."

The thought was interrupted by a pretty young brunette who approached them, and focused like a laser on Mike.

"Hey there, I'm in PR at KUDL in Kansas City. Phoebe Nathan." She held her hand out to him, leaning on the arm of the sofa a little too closely for her intentions not to be clear. He looked at the hand, and at the girl, and nodded.

"Nice ta meetcha."

When it became obvious Mike had nothing more to say, Davy broke the awkward silence by offering a charming smile and suggesting, "See that bird in the middle of the herd over there? She can steer you in the right direction." He gave her a patented Davy wink; all that was missing was the sparkly eye-stars. "We just play the music and run around a lot, but Bonnie, she handles a lot of the business and things."

No dice.

"Yeah, I have her card," Phoebe dismissed, "But I was thinking of something a little more, well, _casual._" By now she was now sitting on the sofa arm, looking down at Mike as if he were hers for the taking.

"She handles _that_ too, Sunshine," he drawled, not bothering to look at her.

Phoebe from Kansas City drew back barely an inch. "Well yeah, but I didn't know it was, y'know, _serious..."_ she began, but was cut off.

"Now you do. My casual's _all_ taken care of by the same lady over there that gave you that press pass." Mike raised his shades to look more closely at the pass. _"Phoebe._ Get it?"

She got it. Business was more important than pleasure, because business paid the bills. Suddenly the sofa arm was vacant, and Phoebe was back among her element on the other side of the room.

* * *

"Man, I wanna _split this scene," _Mike declared. He glared in the direction of the Movers and Shakers, who showed no sign of slowing down.

Of course Peter, Davy and Micky could leave anytime they liked, but that would leave Mike on his own in a den of perceived adversaries. It would not end prettily.

"So why don't you just go up and tell her?" Peter asked.

Mike sat up straighter and removed his shades, staring at Peter in disbelief. "You_ know _who you're talking about, right?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Mike, what's wrong with being honest and direct?"

"Clearly you do not know the meaning of 'contrary wench'. Besides," he looked over at the clutch of execs again, "she's havin' a good time practicing her PTB riffs. I'd have to drag her out kicking and screaming. Nah, if we're gonna split, it's gotta be _her_ idea."

Peter sighed. "So we wait."

"Nope, we go with plan B."

"Plan B? What's that?" Davy wanted to know.

"C'mon fellas, you know... art is art and business is business, but where does it always meet in the middle with Morris?"

"_Music," _they declared in unison.

Micky shook his head. "Never gonna work," he muttered. "She's heard everything we've ever done, twice. The only way we're gonna drive her outta here is with polka music, and I left my accordion in my other pants."

But Mike was smiling now, the smug smile of One Who Knows Better. "Not _drive_, baby, _persuade._" He reached for the acoustic Martin that lay on its case. He knew it was in tune... he always kept his stuff in tune as a matter of principle. Then he patted the recently vacated arm of the sofa.

"Fifty bucks says she's _right here_ by the end of the song, and ready to go. She may be armadillo-armored against our stuff, but _I_ know where the weak spots are. Just follow my lead, fellas."

"Yeah, because that's always ended so well before," Micky muttered, then changed course. "Okay, genius, you're on. Right men?" Davy and Peter nodded in agreement. "Fifty bucks, but you're gonna lose."

"Fifty bucks _each_," Mike corrected, "and I'm gonna win."

He began playing a slow mariachi rhythm that sounded fairly generic, but when he began the lyric Micky grabbed an empty drink tray to lend some conga-style support. Everyone knew the song, but nobody had heard it quite this way before, including Bonnie. Which is exactly what Mike was banking on.

_you can dance every dance with the guy who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight  
you can can smile every smile for the man who held your hand in the pale moonlight_

When he hit the refrain, Peter, Davy and Micky were ready with a tight backup harmony,  
_but don't forget who's takin' you home, and in whose arms you're gonna be_

Then, as band-mates know exactly what to do, they backed off as Mike sang the last line with a ramped-up Texas twang:

_oh darlin' save the last dance for me_

He didn't look up from the strings but managed to cut a sidelong glance at Peter, whose arched eyebrow told Mike his 'contrary wench' had taken notice. They continued the song, drawing a small gathering of curious record-TV-and-radio business people who thought they knew everything the Monkees had to offer. By the end of the second verse Bonnie turned her head just a bit in the direction of the singing, then turned back to the two young record distributors she'd been chatting with. None of the four impromptu performers caught the oddly knowing smile she wore.

_you can dance, go and carry on til the night is gone and it's time to go  
__but if he asks if you're all alone, can he take you home, you must tell him no_

"'scuse me guys," Bonnie told the record execs, and made her way toward the now-rapt group standing in a semi-circle that obscured the sofa but not the song. By now Mike had worked into full-country mode. If he could've gotten away with it he would've thrown in some Spanish and an "unhhh" or two, but that kind of overkill would have tipped his hand and blown the whole thing.

_just don't forget who's takin' you home and in whose arms your gonna be_

As he sang the last line he slid a calculated gaze along the neck of the guitar, and up along where Bonnie sat perched on the sofa arm.

_darlin'... save the last dance for me_

He finished with the kind of wink he knew threw every switch in her. He didn't bother to repeat the last line. He didn't have to.

Those assembled applauded appreciatively and went back to their ad-hoc conferencing and free martinis. Bonnie leaned along the back of the sofa and ran two fingers inside the back of Mike's collar, ignoring the camera flashes. They weren't hiding anymore, after all, so nobody cared who printed what.

"Well you know I don't dance," she purred, "so I guess you're saying you're ready to take me home..."

He smiled sweetly. "Soon as you say your _adios_ to your new friends." The second she departed to do it, he turned to the other three.

"Pay up, suckers."

Micky had thirty bucks on him, and Peter just ten. Davy had spent all of his ready cash tipping the suite's bartenders to impress a few ladies who seemed less than aware of his teen magazine popularity.

"Welshers," Mike grumbled as he shoved the bills in his pocket. "Shoulda known when you said yes to a sucker bet." He packed up his Martin and was ready to go (okay, long past _more_ than ready) when Bonnie rejoined them.

"Okay, let's go. Look, guys, thanks for being so patient, I know you didn't have to hang around. You _really_ didn't have to sing that amazing song. I really appreciate it, even Bob was impressed. And _you_," she addressed Mike, leaning down to give him a kiss, "thanks for not trying to bust me out sooner."

Suddenly all four of them were feeling a little... well, not guilty exactly. Maybe a little less clever. Mike rose and draped an arm around Bonnie.

"Okay, let's get home. It's been a_ long_ night." He dropped his head back with an exaggerated yawn.

Bonnie variously scattered quick kisses and a pat on the head to Davy, Peter, and Micky respectively. "'night guys, see you at script meeting on Monday, bright and early."

They were almost at the door when a young man stepped up and handed Bonnie a hundred dollar bill. Mike recognized him as the radio exec who had had the balls to ask for "a song or two" earlier.

"Here, you won it fair and square," he laughed. She thanked him and he returned to his colleagues.

"What the hell?" Mike asked as they walked down the hall to the elevators.

"That was Gary, he's a radio rep. I think you two met a few hours ago." No further explanation as they rode to the lobby.

"Yeah I remember, wish I didn't. Mind if I ask what he's payin' you for?"

Bonnie turned to face him as she walked backward toward the exit. "He told me what a jerk you were when he asked if you'd be doing a song or two."

"And?"

"And I bet him fifty you would."

Mike stopped dead in the middle of the lobby. _Damn. _He had been out-foxed by his own fox.

_"Fifty_ bucks?" he blustered, apropos of nothing, "So why the c-note?"

She waved it in his face with a smug grin. "Double or nothing if I didn't have to ask you. Jesus, Nesmith, I thought we'd be here all night!" Before he could respond she added, "_Musicians, _ha! You think the right song'll get you _anything."_

Followed by a silently fuming Mike, she laughed all the way to the car.


End file.
